A Study in Joan
by Smauglock The Great
Summary: A recent retiree from Afghanistan, Joan Watson seeks a flat-share in central London. However, rooming with one Sherlock Holmes is not quite what she was expecting. Follows A Study in Pink. Fem!Watson x Sherlock. T for language. First in the "Joan and Sherlock" series. Sequel now up!
1. Joan

Joan Watson, recently retired from service in Afghanistan, was in a meeting with her therapist, Ella, who had been nagging her to write a blog for the past few sessions. "How's your blog going?"

"Yeah, good." Joan cleared her throat awkwardly_._ "Very good."

"You haven't written a word, have you?" Ella sighed, scribbling something down on her notepad.

"You just wrote 'Still has trust issues'." Joan pointed to Ella's note.

"…And you read my writing upside down. D'you see what I mean? Joan, you're a soldier, and it's gonna take you a while to adjust to civilian life; writing a blog about everything that happens to you will honestly help you." Ella set her pen down.

Joan gazed back at her, her face full of despair._ "__Nothing_ happens to me."

* * *

Later, in Russel Square Park, Joan limped briskly through the park, leaning heavily on her cane. As she walked past a man sitting on the bench, the man stared after her, clearly recognizing her. He called out, "Joan! Joan Watson!" Joan turned back to him as he stood up and hurried towards her, smiling. "Stamford. Mike Stamford. We were at Bart's together."

"Yes, sorry, yes, Mike." She took Mike's offered hand and shook it. "Hello, hi."

Mike grinned, gesturing to himself. "Yeah, I know. I got fat."

_"_No." She tried to sound convincing.

"I heard you were abroad somewhere, getting shot at." He said, "What happened?"

_"_I got shot." Joan shifted her weight awkwardly._  
_

A little later they bought take-away coffees and were sitting side by side on a bench in the park. Mike looked at Joan worriedly; blivious, Joan took a sip from her coffee then looked across to her old friend. It was a bit awkward for both of them; Mike admitted he had a slight crush on Joan the year before she joined the army, but she friend-zoned him and said their relationship as friends was good enough.

Joan tried to break the ice by asking, "Are you still at Bart's, then?"

Mike nodded. "Teaching now. Bright young things, like we used to be. God, I hate them!" They both laughed. "What about you? Just staying in town 'til you get yourself sorted?"

"I can't afford London on an Army pension." Joan sighed.

"Ah, and you couldn't bear to be anywhere else. That's not the Joan Watson I know." He stated.

Joan said somewhat uncomfortably, "Yeah, I'm not the Joan Watson..." She stopped. Mike awkwardly looked away and drank his coffee. Joan switched her cup to her right hand and looked down at her left hand, clenching it into a fist as she tried to control the tremor that started coursing through it. _Dammit…_ The tremor ebbed only a bit.

Mike looked round at her again. "Couldn't Harry help?" He asked hopefully.

"Yeah, like _that's_ gonna happen!" Joan laughed sarcastically.

Mike shrugged. "I dunno – get a flat-share or something?"

"Come on – who'd want _me_ for a flatmate?" Joan rolled her eyes as Mike chuckled slightly. "…What?"

"Well, you're the second person to say that to me today." He smirked at her a bit.

"Who was the first?"

* * *

_Sooo… I got bored. I'll probably finish A Study in Pink, but I've no idea whether I'll go on after that._

_Transcript for A Study in Pink (which I modified slightly) taken from: ariane devre dot live journal dot com (omit spaces and replace dots) _

_I own none of the characters above. Please R&R.  
_


	2. Flatmate

Joan and Mike walked into St. Bart's to meet Joan's potential flatmate. In one of the lab rooms, a tall, pale man with dark brown curls was standing at the far end of the lab, using a pipette to squeeze a few drops of liquid onto a Petri dish. The man glanced across at them briefly before looking at his work again. Joan limped into the room, looking around at all the equipment. "Well, bit different from my day." Joan mumbled.

Mike chuckled. "You've no idea."

The man sat down and asked, "Mike, can I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine."

"And what's wrong with the land-line?" The person in question asked back.

"I prefer to text."

"Sorry. It's in my coat." Mike stated.

Joan fished around in her back pocket and took out her own phone and held it out to the man. "Er, here. Use mine?"

The man stared at her in surprise. "Oh… Thank you." He glanced briefly at Mike, then stood up and walked towards Joan.

"She's an old friend of mine, Joan Watson." He introduced her.

The man took Joan's phone from her. Turning partially away from her, he flips open the keypad and starts to type on it. "Afghanistan or Iraq?" He asked.

"Sorry?" Joan frowned.

"Which was it – Afghanistan or Iraq?" He briefly raised his eyes to Joan before looking back to the phone.

She hesitated, then looked across to Mike, who just smiled at them smugly. "Afghanistan. Sorry, how did you know...?"

The man looked up as a young woman came into the room holding a mug of coffee. "Ah, Molly, coffee. Thank you." He shut down Joan's phone and handed it back as Molly brought the mug over to him. He looked closely at her as he took the mug. "What happened to the lipstick?"

Molly smiled a bit awkwardly at him. "It wasn't working for me."

"Really? I thought it was a big improvement. Your mouth's too small now." He turned and walked back to his station, taking a sip from the mug and grimacing at the taste.

"...Okay." She turned and headed back towards the door.

"How do you feel about the violin?"

Joan cast a sympathetic glance at Molly, who returned it on her way out the door. She glanced at Mike, who was still smiling smugly, and finally realized that the man was talking to her. "I'm sorry, what?"

He was now typing on a keyboard as he said, "I play the violin when I'm thinking. Sometimes I don't talk for days on end." He looked round at Joan. "Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other. And while I would've preferred a male as a flatmate, I guess I'll have to work around your… femininity." He threw a hideously false smile at Joan, who was offended slightly by his comment.

She glared at him for a moment, then looked across to Mike. "Oh, you… you told him about me?"

"Not a word." Mike grinned.

Joan turned to the man again. "Then who said anything about flatmates?"

"_I_ did. Told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here he is just after lunch with an old friend and previous crush, clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn't that difficult a leap." He picked up his coat and pulled it on.

"How _did_ you know about Afghanistan? And his crush on me?" Joan asked.

He ignored the questions, however, wrapped his scarf around his neck, then picked up his mobile and checked it. "Got my eye on a nice little place in central London. Together we ought to be able to afford it." He walks towards Joan. "We'll meet there tomorrow evening; seven o'clock. Sorry – gotta dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary." Putting his phone into the inside pocket of his coat, he walked past her and headed for the door.

She turned to look at him. "Is that it?"

The man turned back from the door and strolled closer to Joan again. "Is that what?"

"We've only just met, you've admitted that you have a problem with me being female, and we're still gonna go and look at a flat?" She asked. "Take me to dinner first, at least!" She added sarcastically.

"I told you, I could work around that. Is there a problem other than that?"

Joan smiled in disbelief, looking across to Mike for help, but her friend just continued to smile as he looks at the scene unfolding before him. She turned back to the man. "We don't know a thing about each other; I don't know where we're meeting; I don't even know your name."

The man looked closely at her for a moment before speaking. "I know you're an Army doctor and you've been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you've got a brother who's worried about you but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him – possibly because he's an alcoholic; more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. I know that Mike liked you at one point of time, but you rejected him, yet somehow managed to maintain a healthy friendship with him. And I know that your therapist thinks your limp's psychosomatic – quite correctly, I'm afraid." Joan looked down and shuffled her feet awkwardly.

_"_That's enough to be going on with, don't you think?" He added smugly, walking through the door and leaning his head back through. "The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street." He click-winked at the pair of them before walking out. "Afternoon."

Mike waved in farewell as Sherlock disappeared from the room. As the door slammed shut behind him, Joan turned and looked at Mike in disbelief. Mike smiled and nodded. "Yeah. He's always like that."

"Okay…" Joan turned back towards the door. "So I just might be sharing a flat with… Sherlock Holmes." She laughed a bit. "That'll be interesting."

As she left St. Bart's that day, Mike was constantly teasing her about how it was technically her and Sherlock's first date, much to her annoyance and his enjoyment.

* * *

Later that evening, after managing to somewhat convince Mike that she was _not_ in a relationship, Joan returned to her bedsit. Sitting down on the bed, she took out her mobile phone and went through the menu to find 'Messages Sent'. The last message read:

**If brother has green ladder**  
**arrest brother.**  
**SH**

_What the hell? _Puzzled, Joan looked at the message for a long moment, then across to the table where her laptop sat. She pushed herself to her feet and walked over to the table. Shortly afterwards, she pulled up a search website called 'Quest' and typed "Sherlock Holmes" into the search box. _Time to do some research…_


	3. 221B

The next morning, Joan limped along the road and to the door marked 221B. A black cab pulled up at the curb. She knocked on the door as Sherlock got out of the cab.

"Hello." He greeted, reaching back through the cab window and paying the cabbie.

Joan turned towards him as he approached. "Mr. Holmes."

"Sherlock, please." They shook hands.

"Well, this is a prime spot. Must be expensive." Joan mused.

"Oh, Mrs Hudson, the landlady, she's giving me a special deal. Owes me a favor. A few years back, her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help out." Sherlock stated.

"Sorry, you stopped her husband being executed?"

"Oh no. I ensured it." He smiled at her as the door opened. The landlady, Mrs. Hudson, stepped out and opened her arms to him.

"Sherlock, hello." She smiled as they embraced for a bit.

"Mrs Hudson, Doctor Joan Watson." Sherlock introduced the two ladies.

"Hello." The older woman greets.

"How do?" The younger one smiled a bit.

Mrs. Hudson gestured inside. "Come in."

"Thank you." Joan stepped in as the landlady mouthed something not dissimilar to 'You've brought a girl!' to Sherlock.

"Shall we?" Sherlock managed to hold back a laugh.

"Yeah." The two potential tenets went inside and Mrs Hudson closed the door. Sherlock walked up the stairs to the first floor, then paused and waited for Joan to catch up (Mrs. Hudson could be heard murmuring, "How nice, waiting for a lady." from down the stairs). As she reached the top of the stairs, Sherlock opened the door ahead of him and walked in, revealing the living room of the flat. Joan followed him in and looked around the room and at all the possessions and boxes scattered around it.

"Well, this could be very nice. Very nice indeed." She said out loud.

"Yes. Yes, I think so. My thoughts precisely." He looked around the flat happily.

"So I went straight ahead and moved in."

"Soon as we get all this rubbish cleaned out ... Oh." The pair spoke simultaneously, the latter feeling a bit embarrassed about her statement. "So this is all ..."

"Well, obviously I can, um, straighten things up a bit." He made a half-hearted attempt to tidy up a little, throwing a couple of folders into a box, taking some unopened envelopes across to the fireplace, where he stabbed a knife into them to secure them into the mantle.

_What a slob… _Joan thought, taking notice of something else on the mantelpiece and lifting her cane to point at it. "That's a skull."

"Friend of mine." Sherlock stated simply. "When I say 'friend' ..."

Mrs Hudson walked into the room, picking up an old cup and saucer. "What do you think, then, Doctor Watson? There's another bedroom upstairs, if you'll be _needing_ two bedrooms."

"Of _course_ we'll be needing two." Joan sighed.

"Oh, don't worry; there's all sorts round here." The landlady dropped her voice to a whisper. "Mrs Turner next door's got _married_ ones." She said it like she was trying to prove a point.

Joan blushed. "Oh, no, we're not…" She looked across to Sherlock, expecting him to confirm that he and Joan are not a couple. Sherlock, however, appeared to be oblivious to what was being said. _Oh God, not you too. I've had enough from Mike!_ The doctor thinks as Mrs Hudson walked across to the kitchen. _At least she doesn't think I'm gay…_

Mrs. Hudson turned back and frowned at Sherlock. "Oh, Sherlock. The mess you've made." She went into the kitchen and started tidying up.

Joan walked over to one of the two armchairs and dropped heavily down into it. _So, two people think I'm in a relationship with him, and he remains oblivious. Great._ She thought, looking across to Sherlock, who was still tidying up a little. "I looked you up on the internet last night." She stated.

Sherlock turned around. "Anything interesting?"

"Found your website," Joan said. "The Science of Deduction."

He smiled proudly. "What did you think?

She threw him a 'you-have-got-to-be-kidding-me' type of look; Sherlock looked a bit hurt. "You said you could identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb."

"Yes; and I can read your military career in your face and your leg, and your brother's drinking habits in your mobile phone." He flashed her an 'I-am-being-dead-serious-right-now' type of look to rival her own.

"How?" She asked.

He just smiled and turned away. Mrs Hudson came out of the kitchen, reading the newspaper. "What about these suicides then, Sherlock? I thought that'd be right up your street. Three exactly the same."

Sherlock walked over to the window. "Four." He looked down to a police car that had just pulled up. "There's been a fourth. And there's something different this time."

"A fourth?" She asked in a worried tone.

Sherlock turned to a police officer as he ran up the stairs and came into the living room. "Where?"

"Brixton, Lauriston Gardens." The officer replied.

"What's new about this one? You wouldn't have come to get me if there wasn't something different."

"You know how they never leave notes?"

"Yeah."

"This one did. Will you come?"

"Who's on forensics?"

"It's Anderson."

Sherlock grimaced. "Anderson won't work with me."

"Well, he won't be your assistant." The officer pointed out.

"I need an assistant." Sherlock whined.

"Will you come?" The officer sounded a bit exasperated.

"Not in a police car. I'll be right behind." Sherlock turned back to the window.

"Thank you."The officer looked at Mrs. Hudson and Joan, then murmured half to himself, "Got yourself a girl, Sherlock?"

"I'm not his girlfriend!" Joan shouted. The officer held up his hands in defense, and with that, he turned and hurried off down the stairs. _That makes three…_ She thought.

Sherlock waited until he walked out of sight, then leaped into the air and clenched his fists triumphantly before spinning around the room happily. "Brilliant! Yes! Ah, four serial suicides, and now a note! Oh, it's Christmas!" He picked up his scarf and coat he started to put them on as he headed for the kitchen. "Mrs Hudson, I'll be late. Might need some food."

"I'm your landlady, dear, not your housekeeper." She responded with a sigh.

"Something cold will do." Sherlock continued without taking notice of her comment. "Joan, have a cup of tea, make yourself at home. Don't wait up!" He opened the kitchen door and disappeared from view.

Mrs Hudson turned back to Joan. "Look at him, dashing about! My husband was just the same." Joan grimaced at her repeated implication that she and Sherlock are in a relationship; the landlady remained oblivious. "But you're more the sitting-down type, I can tell." Joan's uncomfortable look went unnoticed. The landlady turned towards the door. "I'll make you that cuppa. You rest your leg."

"Damn my leg!" Joan shouted, but quickly added, "Sorry, I'm so sorry. It's just sometimes this bloody thing ..." She apologized for her outburst, tapping her leg with her cane, as Mrs. Hudson turned round in shock.

"I understand, dear; I've got a hip." The old woman turned toward the door again.

_That was close… _"Cup of tea'd be lovely, thank you." Joan calls into the kitchen after her.

"Just this once, dear. I'm not your housekeeper."

"Couple of biscuits too, if you've got 'em."

"Not your housekeeper!"

Joan smirked, picking up the newspaper which Mrs Hudson put down. She looked at the article reporting a woman named Beth Davenport's apparent suicide. Next to a large photograph of Beth was a smaller one showing the man who just visited the flat, identifying him as D.I. Lestrade. Before she could read on, Sherlock's voice interrupts her. "You're a doctor. In fact, you're an Army doctor." He said from his spot at the living room door.

"Yes." She rose to her feet and turned towards Sherlock as he came back into the room again.

"Any good?" He asked.

"Very good."

"Seen a lot of injuries, then; violent deaths."

"Mmm, yes."

"Bit of trouble too, I bet."

"Of course, yes. Enough for a lifetime. Far too much." Joan said quietly.

"Wanna see some more?" Sherlock smiled hopefully.

"Oh God, yes." She replied fervently.

He spun on his heel and lead her out of the room and down the stairs. Joan called out as she followed him down, "Sorry, Mrs Hudson, I'll skip the tea. Off out."

Mrs. Hudson stood near the bottom of the stairs. "Both of you?"

Sherlock turned and walked towards her. "Impossible suicides? Four of them? There's no point sitting at home when there's finally something fun going on!" He grabbed her by the shoulders and kissed her on the cheek.

"Look at you, all happy. It's not decent." The landlady smiled as he turned away and headed for the front door.

"Who cares about decent?" He began walking out the door, Joan following close behind. "The game, Mrs Hudson, is on!" He walked onto the street and hailed an approaching cab. "Taxi!" The cab pulled up to the curb.

"Have fun on your date!" Mrs. Hudson called as Sherlock stepped into the cab.

"I'm not his date!" Joan shouted furiously as she climbed in and slammed the door.


	4. Taxi

For a long while, the cab ride was fairly uneventful. Joan and Sherlock just sat next to each other while he would constantly check his phone and she would steal nervous glances at him. Finally, he spoke up. "Okay, you've got questions."

"Yeah, where are we going?" She asked.

"Crime scene. Next?"

"Who are you? What do you do?"

"What do you think?"

"I'd say private detective…" Joan said slowly.

"But?" Sherlock smirks ever so slightly.

"…but the police don't go to private detectives." She finished.

"I'm a consulting detective. Only one in the world. I invented the job."

"And what does that mean?"

"It means when the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me." Sherlock stated proudly.

"The police don't consult amateurs." Joan pointed out.

Sherlock threw her a rather unfriendly look. "When I met you for the first time yesterday, I said, 'Afghanistan or Iraq?' You looked surprised."

"Yes, how did you know that?" She asked.

"I didn't know, I saw. The way you keep your hair pinned back despite the fact it's probably only shoulder-length, the way you hold yourself, it all says military. But your conversation as you entered the room said trained at Bart's, so Army doctor – obvious. Your face is tanned but no tan above the wrists. You've been abroad, but not sunbathing. Your limp's really bad when you walk but you don't ask for a chair when you stand, like you've forgotten about it, so it's at least partly psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic. Wounded in action, then. Wounded in action, suntan – Afghanistan or Iraq." He loudly clicked the 'k' sound at the end of the final word for emphasis.

"You said I had a therapist." Joan stated, remembering their conversation.

"You've got a psychosomatic limp – of course you've got a therapist." He said.

She thought back again to the previous day. "You also said that Mike had a crush on me."

"He looked at you with extreme admiration, even though you did not return it." Sherlock stated. "That infers that he had a crush on you and not the other way round, and if I didn't know any better, I'd say he still does." Joan blushed slightly. "Then there's your brother."

"What?"

He held his hand out. "Your phone." She pulled it from her pocket and handed it to him. "It's expensive, e-mail enabled, MP3 player, but you're looking for a flat-share – you wouldn't waste money on this. It's a gift, then. Scratches. Not one, many over time. It's been in the same pocket as keys and coins. The woman sitting next to me wouldn't treat her one luxury item like this, so it's had a previous owner. Next bit's easy. You know it already."

Joan nodded. "The engraving." Sherlock had flipped the phone over to show an engraving on the back:

_Harry Watson  
From Clara  
xxx_

"Harry Watson:" He began. "Clearly a family member who's given you his old phone. Not your father, this is a young man's gadget. Could be a cousin, but you're a war hero who can't find a place to live. Unlikely you've got an extended family, certainly not one you're close to, so brother it is. Now, Clara. Who's Clara? Three kisses says it's a romantic attachment. The expense of the phone says wife, not girlfriend. She must have given it to him recently – this model's only six months old. Marriage in trouble then – six months on he's just given it away. If she'd left him, he would have kept it. People do – sentiment. But no, he wanted rid of it. He left her. He gave the phone to you: that says he wants you to stay in touch. You're looking for cheap accommodation, but you're not going to your brother for help: that says you've got problems with him. Maybe you liked his wife (though you don't strike me as someone who'd be jealous over your own brother's wife); maybe you don't like his drinking."

"How can you possibly know about the drinking?" Joan asked, nearly at her wit's end.

Sherlock smiled at her. "Shot in the dark. Good one, though. Power connection: tiny little scuff marks around the edge of it. Every night he goes to plug it in to charge but his hands are shaking. You never see those marks on a sober man's phone; never see a drunk's without them." He then handed the phone back. "There you go, you see – you were right."

"I was right? Right about what?" She was a bit confused.

"The police don't consult amateurs." He looked out of the side window, biting his lip nervously as he waited for Joan's reaction.

"That…was amazing."

Sherlock looked round at her. "…Do you think so?"

Joan smiled. "Of course it was. It was extraordinary; it was quite extraordinary."

"That's not what people normally say." He stated rather glumly.

"What do people normally say?" She inquired.

"…'Piss off'!" Sherlock smiled briefly at Joan, who grinned, blushed slightly, and turned away to look out of the window.

* * *

The cab arrived at Lauriston Gardens, and Sherlock and Joan get out and walk towards the police tape strung across the road. "Did I get anything wrong?" Sherlock asked her.

"Mike did have a crush on me; confessed it just before we graduated. Harry and me don't get on, never have. Clara and Harry split up three months ago and they're getting a divorce; and Harry is a drinker."

Sherlock looked impressed with himself. "Spot on, then. I didn't expect to be right about everything."

"And Harry is short for Harriet." Her comment made Sherlock stop dead in his tracks.

"…Harry's your sister." He said in a baffled tone.

Joan continued onwards. "Look, what exactly am I supposed to be doing here?"

"Sister!" Sherlock spat furiously through gritted teeth.

"No, seriously, what am I doing here?" She looked back at him.

"…There's always something." He said exasperatedly, taking a few steps to catch up with Joan. They approached the police tape where they were met by a female officer with a sour look on her face, directed at Sherlock.

"Hello, freak." She said.

"I'm here to see Detective Inspector Lestrade."

"Why?"

"I was invited."

"Why?"

"I think he wants me to take a look." He stated sarcastically.

"Well, you know what I think, don't you?" Her glare never softened as Sherlock lifted the police tape and stepped under it.

"Always, Sally." He inhaled through his nose. "I even know you didn't make it home last night."

"I don't…" She looked at Joan. "Er, who's this?"

"Colleague of mine, Doctor Watson." Sherlock turned to Joan. "Doctor Watson, Sergeant Sally Donovan. Old friend." His voice dripped with sarcasm at that last comment.

"A colleague? How do _you_ get a colleague, much less a female one?!" Donovan turned to Joan. "What, did he follow you home?"

"Would it be better if I just waited and…" Joan began, uneasily.

"No." Sherlock lifted the tape for her.

As Joan walked under the tape, Donovan lifted a radio to her mouth and said, "Freak's here. Bringing him in." She lead them towards the house. As they approached, a man dressed in a blue coverall came out of the house.

"Ah, Anderson. Here we are again." Sherlock greeted him.

Anderson looked at him with distaste. "It's a crime scene. I don't want it contaminated. Are we clear on that?"

Sherlock took in another deep breath through his nose "Quite clear. And is your wife away for long?"

"Oh, don't pretend you worked that out." Anderson spat. "Somebody told you that."

"Your deodorant told me that."

"My deodorant?"

"It's for men."

"Well, of course it's for men! I'm wearing it!"

"So's Sergeant Donovan." All eyes went to her after Sherlock's remark. "May I go in now?"

Anderson turned back and pointed at him angrily. "Now look: whatever you're trying to imply…"

"I'm not implying anything. Sherlock headed past Donovan towards the front door. "I'm sure Sally came round for a nice little chat, and just happened to stay over." He turned back. "And I assume she scrubbed your floors, going by the state of her knees." Anderson and Donovan stared at him in horror. He smiled smugly, then turned and went into the house, Joan following close behind. Sherlock lead her into a room on the ground floor where Lestrade was putting on a coverall. The detective pointed to a pile of similar items. "You need to wear one of these." He said to Joan.

"Who's this?" Lestrade asked.

"She's with me." Sherlock took his gloves off.

"Yeah, but who _is_ she?" The D.I. pressed further.

"I _said_ she's with me." The detective stated firmly.

Joan took her jacket off and picked up a coverall. She looked at Sherlock, who had simply picked up a pair of latex gloves. "Aren't you gonna put a coverall on?" Sherlock just stared at her sternly. Joan shook her head, as if to say, 'Oh, silly me. What was I thinking?'

"So," Sherlock turned his attention back to Lestrade. "Where are we?"

Lestrade picked up another pair of latex gloves. "Upstairs."


	5. Pink

Lestrade lead Joan and Sherlock up a circular staircase. He and she were both wearing coveralls with white cotton coverings over their shoes, and latex gloves. Sherlock was putting latex gloves on as they went up the stairs. "I can give you two minutes." The D.I. told them.

"May need longer." Sherlock stated casually

"Her name's Jennifer Wilson, according to her credit cards." Lestrade told them. "We're running them now for contact details. Hasn't been here long. Some kids found her." He lead them into a room two storeys above the ground floor. The room was empty of furniture except for an old, worn out rocking horse in the far corner; emergency portable lighting had been set up by the police. A woman's body was laying face down on the bare floorboards in the middle of the room. She was wearing a bright pink overcoat and high-heeled pink shoes, with her hands flat on the floor either side of her head. Sherlock walked a few steps into the room and then stops, holding one hand out in front of himself as he focused on the corpse. Behind him, Joan looked at the woman's body and her face filled with sadness. The three of them stood there silently for several long seconds, then Sherlock looked across to Lestrade.

"Shut up." Sherlock said.

"I didn't say anything." Lestrade replied, startled.

"You were thinking. It's annoying." The detective stepped forward until he reached the corpse. His attention was immediately drawn to the fact that the word "Rache" was scratched into the floorboards by the woman's left hand. His eyes flicked to her fingernails, where the index and middle nails were broken and ragged at the ends with the nail polish chipped, in stark comparison to her other nails, which remained immaculate and a very alarming shade of pink. The woman's index finger rested at the bottom of the 'e', as if she was still trying to carve into the floor when she died.

Sherlock knelt down beside the body and ran his gloved hand along the back of her coat, then lifted his hand again to look at his fingers. He reached into her coat pockets and found a white folding umbrella in one of them. Running his fingers along the folds of the material, he then inspected his glove again. Putting the umbrella back into her pocket, he flipped up to the collar of her coat and ran his fingers underneath it before once again looking at his fingers. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a small magnifier, clicks it open and closely inspects the delicate gold bracelet on her left wrist, then the gold earring attached to her left ear, and then the gold chain around her neck, before moving on to look at the rings on her left ring finger.

"What's he doing?" Joan whispered to Lestrade.

"Deducing things about the victim." He replied. "They're mostly helpful, but sometimes he just gives us useless information."

"I heard that." Sherlock stood, smiling slightly at the corpse.

"Got anything?" The D.I asked.

Sherlock stood and nonchalantly said, "Not much." He took the gloves off and got his mobile phone from his pocket and began typing on it.

Anderson suddenly appeared, leaning casually against the doorway, and said, "She's German. 'Rache': it's German for 'revenge'. She could be trying to tell us something…"

As he had been speaking, Sherlock walked quickly towards the door and closed it in Anderson's face. "Yes, thank you for your input." He says sarcastically as the door shut. He turned and walked back into the room, messing with something on his phone.

"So she's German?" Lestrade asked.

"Of course she's not." Sherlock's eyes never looked up from his phone. "She's from out of town, though. Intended to stay in London for one night…" He smiled smugly, apparently finding the information he needed "…before returning home to Cardiff." He pocketed his phone. "So far, so obvious."

"Sorry – obvious?" Joan spoke up.

"What about the message, though?" Lestrade asked.

Sherlock ignored him and looked at Joan. "Doctor Watson, what do you think?"

"…Of the message?" She asked.

"Of the body. You're a medical woman." He gestured to the corpse.

"Wait, no, we have a whole team right outside." Lestrade stepped in.

"They won't work with me." Sherlock stated simply.

"I'm breaking every rule letting you in here to examine the body, not hang out with your girlfriend." Lestrade sighed.

"Yes…because you need me." The detective replied, ignoring that last comment.

Lestrade stared at him for a moment, then lowered his eyes helplessly. "Yes, I do. God help me."

"Doctor Watson, if you please." Sherlock turned to her.

"Hm?" Joan looked up from the body to Sherlock, then turned her head towards Lestrade, silently seeking his permission.

"Oh, do as he says. Help yourself." Lestrade said, a little irritable, then turned and opened the door, going outside. "Anderson, keep everyone out for a couple of minutes."

Sherlock and Joan walked over to the body. Sherlock knelt down on one side of it and Joan painfully lowered herself to one knee on the other side, leaning heavily on her cane to support herself. "Well?" He said.

"What am I doing here?" Joan asked softly.

"Helping me make a point." Sherlock replied in a hushed tone.

"What, make a point that you ignore everything people say about… us?" She glared slightly. "I'm just supposed to be helping you pay the rent."

"Yeah, well, this is more fun." He smirked.

"Fun? There's a woman lying dead." Joan raised her volume a bit.

"Perfectly sound analysis, but I was hoping you'd go deeper." He said, making it considerably hard for her not to roll her eyes.

As Lestrade came back into the room and stood just inside the doorway, Joan dragged her other leg down into a kneeling position, then leaned forward to look more closely at the woman's body. Joan put her head close to the corpse's and sniffed, then straightened a little before lifting the corpse's right hand and looking at the skin. Joan knelt up and looks across to Sherlock.

"Yeah…Asphyxiation, probably." Was her analysis. "Passed out, choked on her own vomit. Can't smell any alcohol on her. It could have been a seizure; possibly drugs…"

"You know what it was. You've read the papers." Sherlock said.

"What, she's one of the suicides? The fourth…?" She asked.

"Sherlock, while I'd hate to split up this touching moment, I need anything you've got." Lestrade stepped into the room.

Sherlock stood up as Joan struggled to get to her feet. "Victim is in her late thirties. Professional person, going by her clothes; I'm guessing something in the media, going by the frankly alarming shade of pink. Traveled from Cardiff today, intending to stay in London for one night. It's obvious from the size of her suitcase."

"Suitcase?" Lestrade asked as Joan began to look around the room for a suitcase.

"Suitcase, yes." Sherlock continued. "She's been married at least ten years, but not happily. She's had a string of lovers but none of them knew she was married."

"Oh, for God's sake, if you're just making this up…" The D.I. began to say.

Sherlock pointed down to her left hand. "Her wedding ring. Ten years old at least. The rest of her jewellery has been regularly cleaned, but not her wedding ring. State of her marriage right there. The inside of the ring is shinier than the outside – that means it's regularly removed. The only polishing it gets is when she works it off her finger. It's not for work; look at her nails. She doesn't work with her hands, so what or rather who does she remove her rings for? Clearly not one lover; she'd never sustain the fiction of being single over that amount of time, so more likely a string of them. Simple."

"That's brilliant." Joan said admiringly as Sherlock looked round at her. "Sorry." She added apologetically.

"Cardiff?" Lestrade said.

"It's obvious, isn't it?" Sherlock turned to him.

"It's not obvious to me." Joan interjected.

Sherlock paused, looking between them. "Dear God, what is it like in your funny little brains? It must be so boring." He turned back to the body. "Her coat: it's slightly damp. She's been in heavy rain in the last few hours. No rain anywhere in London in that time. Under her coat collar is damp, too. She's turned it up against the wind. She's got an umbrella in her left-hand pocket but it's dry and unused: not just wind, strong wind – too strong to use her umbrella. We know from her suitcase that she was intending to stay overnight, so she must have come a decent distance but she can't have travelled more than two or three hours because her coat still hasn't dried. So, where has there been heavy rain and strong wind within the radius of that travel time?" He pulled his phone from his pocket and showed them the webpage he was looking at earlier, displaying that day's weather for the southern part of Britain. "Cardiff."

"That's fantastic!" Joan said.

The detective turned to her and said in a low voice, "D'you know you do that out loud?"

"Sorry. I'll shut up." The doctor added.

"No, it's…fine." He gave her a ghost of a smile.

"Why d'you keep saying suitcase?" Lestrade asked him.

Sherlock spun around in a circle to look around the room. "Yes, where is it? She must have had a phone or an organizer. Find out who Rachel is."

"She was writing 'Rachel'?" The D.I. said.

"No, she was leaving an angry note in German!" The detective spat sarcastically. "Of course she was writing Rachel; no other word it can be. Question is: why did she wait until she was dying to write it?"

Lestrade was nearly at his wit's end. "How d'you know she had a suitcase?"

Sherlock pointed down to the body, where her tights had small black splotches on the lower part of her right leg. "Back of the right leg: tiny splash marks on the heel and calf, not present on the left. She was dragging a wheeled suitcase behind her with her right hand. Don't get that splash pattern any other way. Smallish case, going by the spread. Case that size, woman this clothes-conscious: could only be an overnight bag, so we know she was staying one night." He knelt down once more by the woman's body and examines the backs of her legs more closely. "Now, where is it? What have you done with it?"

"There wasn't a case."

Slowly, Sherlock raised his head and frowned up at Lestrade. "Say that again."

"There wasn't a case." Lestrade repeated. "There was never any suitcase."

Immediately, Sherlock straightened up and headed for the door, calling out to all the police officers in the house as he began to hurry down the stairs. "Suitcase! Did anyone find a suitcase? Was there a suitcase in this house?"

Lestrade and Joan followed him out and stopped on the landing. Lestrade called down the stairs, "Sherlock, there was no case!"

Sherlock slowed down, but still made his way down the stairs, "But they take the poison themselves; they chew, swallow the pills themselves. There are clear signs, even you lot couldn't miss them."

"Right, yeah, thanks!" Lestrade called frustratedly. "And…?"

"It's murder, all of them. I don't know how, but they're not suicides, they're killings – serial killings." He held his hands up in front of his face in sheer delight. "We've got ourselves a serial killer. I love those. There's always something to look forward to."

"Why are you saying that?" The D.I. called.

Sherlock stopped and called up to the others, "Her case! Come on, where is her case? Did she eat it?! Someone else was here, and they took her case." His voice lowered, as if he was talking to himself, "So the killer must have driven her here; forgot the case was in the car."

"She could have checked into a hotel, left her case there." Joan suggested.

The detective looked up the stairs again. "No, she never got to the hotel. Use your woman's intuition, Doctor Watson, and look at her hair. She color-coordinates her lipstick and her shoes. She'd never have left any hotel with her hair still looking…" He stopped talking as he made a realization. "Oh." His eyes widened and his face lit up. "Oh!" He clapped his hands in delight.

"Sherlock?" Joan called worriedly.

Lestrade leaned over the railings. "What is it, what?"

Sherlock smiled cheerfully to himself. "Serial killers are always hard. You have to wait for them to make a mistake."

"We can't just wait!" Lestrade shouted.

"Oh, we're done waiting!" Sherlock started to hurry down the stairs again. "Look at her, really look! Houston, we have a mistake. Get on to Cardiff: find out who Jennifer Wilson's family and friends were. Find Rachel!" He reached the bottom of the stairs and disappeared from Lestrade and Joan's view.

Lestrade called after him, "Of course, yeah – but what mistake?!"

Sherlock ran back into view and up a couple of stairs so that he could be seen before he yelled, "PINK!", then hurried off again.


	6. Phone

Shortly after Sherlock ran out of the building, Joan had reached the ground floor, removed her coverall, put her jacket back on and began to walk out onto the street. Looking all around, she could not see any sign of Sherlock. _Dammit, I think he ditched me…_ She walked towards the police tape, still looking around. Donovan, standing at the tape, turned and saw her.

"He's gone." Donovan stated.

"Who, Sherlock Holmes?" Joan asked.

Donovan nodded. "Yeah, he just took off. He does that."

"Is he coming back?" The doctor asked, a bit hopeful.

"Didn't look like it." The officer said.

"…Right." Joan looked around the area again thoughtfully, unsure of what to do. "Right ... Yes." She turned to Donovan again. "Sorry, where am I?"

"Brixton."

"Right. Er, d'you know where I could get a cab? It's just, er…well…" Joan looked down awkwardly at her cane. "…my leg."

"Er…" Donovan stepped over to the tape and lifted it for her. "Try the main road."

Joan ducked under the tape. "Thanks."

"But you're not his girlfriend." Joan turned back towards her at her words. "He doesn't even have regular friends. So who are you?"

"I'm… I'm nobody. I just met him." Joan admitted.

"Okay, bit of advice then: stay away from that guy."

"Why?"

"You know why he's here? He's not paid or anything. He likes it. He gets off on it. The weirder the crime, the more he gets off. And you know what? One day just showing up won't be enough. One day we'll be standing round a body and Sherlock Holmes'll be the one that put it there." Donovan stated with a know-it-all air about her.

"Why would he do that?" Joan was genuinely curious about her reasoning.

"Because hes a psychopath. And psychopaths get bored." Came the reply.

Lestrade called from the entrance to the house, "Donovan!"

Donovan turned and called back, "Coming." She turned back towards Joan as she walked towards the house. "Stay away from Sherlock Holmes."

Joan watched her go for a moment, then turned and began to limp off down the road. _Crazy git…_ She wasn't entirely sure if she was thinking about Sherlock or Donovan at that moment. To her right, the phone in a public telephone box began to ring. She stopped and looked at it for a few seconds, but then looked down at her watch, shook her head and continued down the road. The phone stopped ringing.

* * *

Not long afterwards, Joan was walking down the road, trying to hail a passing taxi. "Taxi! Taxi…" The taxi passed her by._ Damn_ _it._

In the fast food restaurant outside which Joan is standing, the payphone on the wall began to ring. Joan turned and looked as one of the serving staff walked over to it, but as he reached for the phone, it stopped. Joan continued walking on down the road and shortly afterwards approached another public telephone box. The phone inside started to ring. Mystified by this, she pulled open the door, went inside and lifted the phone. "Hello?"

A man's voice spoke through the phone. "There is a security camera on the building to your left. Do you see it?"

Joan frowned. "Who's this? Who's speaking?"

"Do you see the camera, Doctor Watson?" The voice persisted.

Joan looked through the window of the phone box at the CCTV camera high up on the wall of a nearby building. "Yeah, I see it."

"Watch." The camera, which was pointing directly at the phone box, swiveled away. "There is another camera on the building opposite you. Do you see it?"

She looked across to the second camera, which was also pointed towards the phone box. "Mmm-hmm."

The camera immediately swiveled away. "And finally, at the top of the building on your right."

Joan stared up into the third camera, which was watching her, and turned away. "How are you doing this?"

"Get into the car, Doctor Watson." A black car pulled up at the curbside near the phone. A male driver stepped out and opened the rear door. "I _would_ make some sort of threat, but I'm sure your situation is quite clear to you." The phone went dead. Joan put it down and stood inside the phone box for a long moment. _Shit. What if he's going to murder me? What if he's the apparent serial killer…_ After a while, despite her best judgement, she decided that there was not much else she could do (what with her damn leg and everything) and turned to leave the phone box.

A few moments later, Joan found herself sitting in the back seat of the car as it pulled away and drove off. A young woman was sitting beside her, her eyes fixed on her BlackBerry as she typed on it. She was pretty much ignoring her. "…Hello." Joan said.

The woman smiled brightly at Joan for a moment before returning her gaze to her phone. "Hi."

"What's your name, then?" Joan asked.

"Umm…Anthea." She said.

"Is that your real name?" The doctor asked sceptically.

"No." Not-Anthea smiled.

Joan nodded, then twisted around in her seat to look out of the rear window briefly before turning back again. "Any point in asking where I'm going?"

"None at all…" Not-Anthea turned and smiled briefly at her, then looked back at her phone again. "…Joan."

"…Okay…" Joan turned and looked out the window, wondering where exactly she was going.


	7. Deal

Some time later, the car carrying Joan and Not-Anthea pulled into an almost-empty warehouse. A man in a suit was standing in the center of the area, leaning nonchalantly on an umbrella as he watched the car stop and John get out. In front of the man was a straight-backed armless chair facing him. He gestured to it with the point of his umbrella as Joan limped towards him, leaning heavily on her cane. "Have a seat, Joan."

Joan continued towards him, her voice calm. "You know, I've got a phone." She looked round the warehouse. "I mean, very clever and all that, but er…you could just phone me. On my phone." She walked straight past the chair and stopped a few steps away from the man.

"When one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes, one learns to be discreet, hence this place." The man said, his voice becoming a little more stern. "The leg must be hurting you. Sit down."

"I don't wanna sit down." She stated.

The man looked at her curiously. "You don't seem very afraid."

"You don't seem very frightening."

The man chuckled. "Ah, yes. The bravery of the soldier. Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don't you think?" He looks at John sternly. "What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?"

"I don't have one. I barely know him. I met him…" She looked away thoughtfully. "…yesterday."

"Mmm, and since yesterday you've moved in with him and now you're solving crimes together. Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?"

"Who _are_ you?" Joan asked.

"An interested party." The man replied.

"Interested in Sherlock? Why? I'm guessing you're not friends."

"You've met him. How many 'friends' do you imagine he has? I am the closest thing to a friend that Sherlock Holmes is capable of having."

"And what's that?"

"An enemy."

"An enemy?"

"In _his_ mind, certainly. If you were to ask him, he'd probably say his _arch_-enemy. He does love to be dramatic."

Joan looked around the warehouse again. "Well, thank God _you're_ above all that." She said, sarcastically.

The man frowned at her. Just then, Joan's phone went off, signaling a text alert. She immediately dug into her jacket pocket, took out the phone and activated it, looking at the message while ignoring the man in front of her. The message read:

**Baker Street.**  
**Come at once**  
**if convenient.**  
**SH**

"I hope I'm not distracting you." The man said.

"Not distracting me at all." She said casually, taking her time looking up from the phone before she pocketed it.

"Do you plan to continue your association with Sherlock Holmes?" He inquired further.

"I could be wrong…but I think that's none of your business." Joan said defiantly.

"It _could_ be." The man said, rather ominously.

"It _really_ couldn't."

The man took a notebook from his inside pocket, opened it and consulted it as he spoke. "If you _do_ move into, um ... two-hundred-and-twenty-one B Baker Street, I'd be happy to pay you a meaningful sum of money on a regular basis to ease your way." He closed the notebook and put it away.

"Why?"

"Because you're not a wealthy woman."

"In exchange for what?"

"Information. Nothing indiscreet. Nothing you'd feel…uncomfortable with. Just tell me what he's up to."

"Why?"

"I worry about him. Constantly."

"That's nice of you." Joan said, insincerely.

"But I would prefer, for various reasons, that my concern go unmentioned. We have what you might call a…difficult relationship." The man stated.

Joan's phone sounded another text alert. Again, she immediately fished the phone out and looked at the message, which read:

**If inconvenient,**  
**come anyway.**  
**SH**

Still looking at her phone, she said, "No," in response to the man's offer.

"But I haven't mentioned a figure." The man said.

"Don't bother." Joan put her phone away again.

The man laughed briefly. "You're very loyal, _very_ quickly."

"No, I'm not. I'm just not interested."

The man looked at her closely for a moment, then took out his notebook and opened it again. He gestured to it to make it clear that he was reading a note from the book. "'Trust issues,' it says here."

For the first time since their encounter began, Joan looked a little unnerved. "What's that?"

"Could it be that you've decided to trust Sherlock Holmes of all people?" The man said, not looking up from his book.

"Who says I trust him?" She challenged.

"You don't seem the kind to make friends easily." He pointed out.

"Are we done?"

The man raised his head and looked into Joan's eyes. "You tell me." Joan looked at him for a long moment, then turned her back on him and started to walk away. "I imagine people have already warned you to stay away from him, but I can see from your left hand that's not going to happen."

Joan stopped dead. Her shoulders tensed and dropped, and she angrily shook her head a little. She is clearly furious as she turned back around to face the man._ "_My what?" She asked through gritted teeth.

_"_Show me." He said calmly, nodding towards Joan's left hand. He placed the tip of his umbrella on the floor and leaned casually on it, with the slightly arrogant air of a man who is used to having his orders obeyed.

Joan, however, was not going to be intimidated and deliberately shifted her feet under her as if digging in to the concrete floor. She raised her left hand, bending it at the elbow, and stood still. Her body language told him, 'If you want to look at my hand, you'll have to come to me.' Apparently unperturbed by this belligerence, the man strolled forward, hooking the handle of the umbrella over his arm as he reached for Joan's hand. She instantly pulled her hand back a little_. "_Don't." She said tensely.

The man lowered his head and raised his eyebrows at Joan, almost as if saying, 'Did I mention trust issues?' She very reluctantly held out her hand, positioning it out flat with the palm down. The man took it in both of his own hands and looked at it closely. "Remarkable." He half-muttered.

Joan immediately snatched it away. "What is?"

The man turned and walked a few paces away from her. "Most people blunder round this city, and all they see are streets and shops and cars. When you walk with Sherlock Holmes, you see the battlefield." He turned towards Joan again. "You've seen it already, haven't you?"

"What's wrong with my hand?" She demanded, refusing to answer his question.

"You have an intermittent tremor in your left hand." Joan nodded her head, almost unintentionally. "Your therapist thinks it's post-traumatic stress disorder. She thinks you're haunted by memories of your military service."

Joan almost flinches as the man accurately fires off these facts at her. Her gaze is fixed ahead of her as she asked, angrily and rather distressed, _"_Who the hell _are_ you? How do you know that?"

"Fire her. She's got it the wrong way round. You're under stress right now and your hand is perfectly steady." Joan's eyes flicked down towards her hand before returning to stare ahead of herself, struggling to hold back her anger. "You're not haunted by the war, Doctor Watson…you miss it." He leans closer to her and, reluctantly, Joan brings her eyes up to meet his. "Welcome back." He whispered. The man turned and started to walk away just as Joan's phone signals another text alert. "Time to choose a side, Doctor Watson." The man casually twirled his umbrella as he walked away.

Joan stood fixed to the spot for a few seconds, then turned and glanced towards the departing man. A car door opened behind her and Not-Anthea got out and walked a few paces towards him, her attention still riveted to the BlackBerry held in front of her in both hands. "I'm to take you home." She said, presumably sending another text,

Joan half-turned towards her, then stopped to take out her phone to look at the new message. It read:

**Could be dangerous.**  
**SH**

Putting the phone back into his pocket, Joan held out her left hand in front of her and studied the lack of tremor coming from it. She smiled wryly.

"Address?" Not-Anthea spoke up.

Joan turned and began to walk towards her. "Er, Baker Street. Two-two-one B Baker Street. But I need to stop off somewhere first."

* * *

Later, Joan opened the door to her old bedsit and switched on the light. Walking inside and closing the door behind her, she went across to the desk and opened the drawer, taking out her pistol. Checking the clip, she tucked the gun into the back of the waistband of her jeans and turned to leave again.

* * *

Later again, the car pulled up outside 221B Baker Street. Not-Anthea is still riveted by whatever she was typing on her phone. Joan looked across to her. "Listen, your boss – any chance you could not tell him this is where I went?"

"Sure." Not-Anthea responds, nonchalantly.

"You've told him already, haven't you?" Joan asked.

Not-Anthea smiled across to her briefly. "Yeah."

Joan nodded in resignation, turned and got out of the car. She closed the door, then watched the car drive away before knocking on the door to 221B.


	8. Text

In the living room of 221B, Sherlock was lying stretched out on the sofa with his head towards the window and resting on a cushion. His jacket was off, his shirt sleeves were unbuttoned and pushed up his arms, his eyes were closed, and he was pressing the palm of his right hand firmly onto the underside of his left arm just below the elbow. After some time, his eyes snapped wide open and he stared fixedly up towards the ceiling, then sighed noisily and relaxed. Joan came through the door, then stopped and stared as Sherlock repeatedly clenched and un-clenched his left fist.

"What are you doing?" Joan asked from her spot at the doorway.

"Nicotine patch." Sherlock responded calmly. "Helps me think." He lifted his right hand to show that he had three round nicotine patches stuck to his left arm; he was pressing these against his skin to release the substances more quickly. "Impossible to sustain a smoking habit in London these days. Bad news for brain work." He loudly clicks the 'k' in 'work' for emphasis.

Joan walked further into the room. "It's good news for breathing."

"Oh, breathing." Sherlock sighed dismissively. "Breathing's boring."

Joan frowned as she looked more closely at Sherlock's arm._ "…_Is that three patches?"

Sherlock pressed his hands together in the prayer position under his chin and said, "It's a three-patch problem." He closed his eyes.

Joan looked around the room for a moment, then looked down at Sherlock again._ "_Well?" Sherlock did not respond. "You asked me to come. I'm assuming it's important."

Sherlock still did not respond instantly, but after a couple of seconds his eyes snapped open. He didn't bother turning his head to look at Joan. "Oh, yeah, of course. Can I borrow your phone?"

"My phone?"

"Don't wanna use mine. Always a chance that the number will be recognized. It's on the website."

"Mrs. Hudson's got a phone."

"Yeah, she's downstairs. I tried shouting but she didn't hear."

Joan was beginning to get angry. "I _was_ the other side of London."

"There was no hurry." Sherlock stated mildly.

Joan glared at him as he gazed serenely at the ceiling before closing his eyes again. Eventually, she dug her phone out of her jacket pocket and held it out to him. "Here." Without opening his eyes, Sherlock held out his right hand with the palm up. Joan glowered at him for a moment, then stepped forward and slapped the phone into his hand. Sherlock slowly lifted his arm and put his hands together again, this time with the phone in between his palms. Joan turned and walks a few steps away before turning around again. "So what's this about – the case?"

"Her case." Sherlock said softly.

"_Her_ case?" Joan asked.

Sherlock opened his eyes. "Her suitcase, yes, obviously. The murderer took her suitcase. First big mistake."

"Okay, he took her case." Joan almost rolled her eyes. "So?"

"It's no use, there's no other way." He said quietly, as if he was talking to himself. "We'll have to risk it." Raising his voice a little, he held the phone out towards Joan, still not looking at her. "On my desk there's a number. I want you to send a text."

Joan half-smiled angrily in disbelief and said tightly, "You brought me here…to send a text."

"Text, yes." Sherlock replied, oblivious to her anger. "The number on my desk." He continued to hold the phone out while Joan continued to glower at him. Eventually, she stomped across the room and snatched her phone from Sherlock's hand. Sherlock refolded his hands under his chin and closed his eyes. Instead of going to the desk, Joan walked over to the window and looked out of it into the street below. Sherlock opened his eyes and tilted his head slightly towards her. "What's wrong?" He asked.

"Just met a friend of yours." She responded.

Sherlock frowned in confusion. "A _friend_?"

"An enemy." Joan corrected herself.

"Oh." He immediately relaxed, then asked, "Which one?"

'_Which one?'_ Joan thought to herself. _He has more than one 'enemy?' __Just how much trouble am I getting myself into? _Her thoughts went unvoiced as she responded with, "Your _arch_-enemy, according to him." She turned towards him. "Do people _have_ arch-enemies?"

Sherlock looked towards her, narrowing his eyes suspiciously. "Did he offer you money to spy on me?"

"Yes."

"Did you take it?"

"No."

"Pity. We could have split the fee. Think it through next time."

"Who is he?"

_"_The most dangerous man you've ever met," He said softly, "and not my problem right now." He continued louder, saying, "On my desk, the number.

Joan shot him a dark look, but Sherlock had already looked away again, so she walked over to the desk and picked up a piece of paper taken from a luggage label. She looked at the name on the paper. "Jennifer Wilson. That was…Hang on. Wasn't that the dead woman?"

"Yes. That's not important. Just enter the number." Sherlock told her. Shaking her head, Joan got her phone out and started to type the number into it. "Are you doing it?"

"Yes." Joan responded.

"Have you _done_ it?" He asked urgently.

"Ye- hang on!" She was beginning to get a little annoyed with him.

"These words _exactly_: 'What happened at Lauriston Gardens? I must have blacked out.' Joan started to type those words in, but looked briefly across to Sherlock, as if concerned at what he just said. Sherlock continued his narration with, "'Twenty-two Northumberland Street. Please come.'"

Joan had gotten as far as:

**What happened at**  
**Lauriston Gdns?**  
**I must have b**

before she looked across to Sherlock again, frowning. "You blacked out?"

"What? No. No!" He flipped his legs around the sofa to the floor and stood up, taking the shortest route towards the kitchen – which involved walking _over_ the coffee table beside the sofa rather than around it. "Type and send it. Quickly." Going into the kitchen, he picked up a small pink suitcase from a chair and brought it back into the living room. Walking over to the dining table, he lifted one of the chairs and flipped it around, setting it down in front of one of the two armchairs near the fireplace. He set the suitcase onto the chair and sat down in the armchair. Joan was still typing. "Have you sent it?"

"What's the address?"

_"_Twenty-two Northumberland Street. Hurry up!" He spat impatiently.

Joan finished the message, then looked round as Sherlock unzipped the case and flipped open the lid, revealing the contents. There were a few items of clothing – all in varying shades of pink – a washbag, and a paperback novel. As Joan turned towards the case, she staggered slightly in shock as she realized what she was looking at. "That's…that's the pink lady's case. That's Jennifer Wilson's case."

Sherlock studied the contents of case closely. "Yes, obviously." As Joan continued to stare, Sherlock looked up at her and then rolled her eyes and said sarcastically, "Oh, perhaps I should mention: _I_ didn't kill her."

"I never said you did." She stated.

"Why not?" He asked. "Given the text I just had you send and the fact I that have her case, it's a perfectly logical assumption."

"Do people usually assume you're the murderer?" She asked.

Sherlock smirked. "Now and then, yes." He put his hands onto the arms of the armchair and lifted his feet up and under him so that he was perching on the seat, sitting on back rest, then clasped his hands under his chin.

"Okay…" Joan limped across the room and dropped into the armchair on the other side of the fireplace, which also happened to be the one she sat in earlier. "How did you get this?"

"By looking." He said.

"Where?" She asked.

"The killer must have driven her to Lauriston Gardens. He could only keep her case by accident if it was in the car. Nobody could be seen with this case without drawing attention – particularly a man, which is statistically more likely – so obviously he'd feel compelled to get rid of it the moment he noticed he still had it. Wouldn't have taken him more than five minutes to realize his mistake. I checked every back street wide enough for a car five minutes from Lauriston Gardens, and anywhere you could dispose of a bulky object without being observed. It took me less than an hour to find the right skip."

"Pink." Joan said, almost in disbelief. "You got _all_ that because you realized the case would be pink?"

"Well, it _had_ to be pink, obviously." Sherlock stated.

"Why didn't _I_ think of that?" Joan said to herself.

"Because you're an idiot." Joan looked across to him, startled. Sherlock made a placatory gesture with one hand and said, "No, no, no, don't look like that. Practically everyone is." He refolded his hands and extended his index fingers to point at the case. "Now, look. Do you see what's missing?"

"From the case? How _could_ I, without…going through it?" She asked, irritated.

"Her phone." Sherlock said. "Where's her mobile phone? There was no phone on the body, there's no phone in the case. We know she had one – that's her number there; you just texted it."

"Maybe she left it at home." Joan suggested.

Sherlock put his hands onto the arms of the chair and raised himself up so that he could lower his feet to the floor, then sat down properly on the chair. "She has a string of lovers and she's careful about it. She _never_ leaves her phone at home." He put the slip of paper back into the luggage label on the case and looked at Joan expectantly.

"Er…" Sh_e _looked down at her mobile phone, which she had put onto the arm of her chair. "Why did I just send that text?"

"Well, the question is: where is her phone _now_?" Sherlock inquired, half to himself.

"She could have lost it." Joan gave another suggestion.

"Yes, or…?" He half-grinned wryly.

"The murderer…" She said slowly. "You think the murderer has the phone?"

"Maybe she left it when she left her case. Maybe he took it from her for some reason. Either way, the balance of probability is the murderer has her phone." Sherlock stated.

"Sorry, what are we doing? Did I just _text_ a _murderer_?! What good will _that_ do?!" As if on cue, her phone began to ring. She picked it up and looked at the screen for the Caller I.D. It read:

**(withheld)**  
**calling**

She looked across to Sherlock as the phone continued to ring.

"A few hours after his last victim, and now he receives a text that can only be from her. If somebody had just _found_ that phone they'd ignore a text like that, but the murderer…" He paused dramatically for a moment until the phone stopped ringing. "…would panic." He flipped the lid of the suitcase closed and stood up, walking across the room to pick up his jacket. As Joan continued to stare down at her phone, Sherlock put his jacket on and walked towards the door.

Joan finally looked up and asked, "Have you talked to the police?"

"Four people are dead. There isn't time to talk to the police." Sherlock grabbed his greatcoat, though let it hang for a moment on its hook.

"So why are you talking to _me_?" She asked.

He lifted his greatcoat from the hook. As he looked across towards Joan, she noticed that something was missing from the mantelpiece. "Mrs Hudson took my skull."

"So I'm basically filling in for your skull?" Joan raised an eyebrow.

Sherlock put his coat on. "Relax, you're doing fine." Joan did not move. "Well?"

"Well what?"

"Well, you could just sit there and watch telly."

"What, you want me to come with you?"

"I like company when I go out, and I think better when I talk aloud. The skull just attracts attention, so…" Joan smiled briefly at him. "Problem?"

"Yeah, Sergeant Donovan." Joan stated.

Sherlock looked away in exasperation. "What about her?"

"She said…" She paused, choosing her words carefully. "You get off on this. You enjoy it."

"And I said "dangerous", and here you are." He said nonchalantly, instantly turning and walking out of the door.

Joan sat there thoughtfully for a few seconds, then almost angrily leaned onto her cane to push herself to her feet and headed for the door. "Damn it!"


	9. Chase

Not long afterwards, Joan caught up to Sherlock in the street and they continued down the road. "Where are we going?" She asked.

"Northumberland Street's a five-minute walk from here." Sherlock told her.

"You think he's stupid enough to go there?" Joan asked skeptically.

Sherlock smiled. "No – I think he's _brilliant_ enough. I love the brilliant ones. They're always so desperate to get caught."

"Why?"

"Appreciation! Applause! At long last the spotlight. That's the frailty of genius, Joan: it needs an audience."

Joan looked pointedly at him_._ "Yeah."

Oblivious to the implication, Sherlock spun around to indicate the entire area as they continued down the road."This is his hunting ground, right here in the heart of the city. Now that we know his victims were abducted, that changes everything. Because all of his victims disappeared from busy streets, crowded places, but nobody saw them go." He held his hands up on either side of his head, almost as if he was focusing his thoughts. "Think! Who do we trust, even though we don't know them? Who passes unnoticed wherever they go? Who hunts in the middle of a crowd?"

"Dunno. Who?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Haven't the faintest. Hungry?" Lowering his hands, he lead Joan onwards and into a small restaurant. The waiter near the door gestured to a reserved table at the front window. "Thank you, Billy." Taking his coat off, he sat down on the bench seat at the side of the table and immediately turned sideways so that he could see clearly out of the window. As Billy took the 'Reserved' sign off the table, Joan sat down on the other bench seat with her back to the window, and takes off her jacket. Sherlock nodded to a building over the road. "Twenty-two Northumberland Street. Keep your eyes on it."

"He isn't just gonna ring the doorbell, though, is he? He'd need to be mad."

"He _has_ killed four people."

"…Okay."

The manager and/or owner of the restaurant comes over, clearly pleased to see the detective. "Sherlock." They shook hands. "Anything on the menu, whatever you want, free." He laid a couple of menus on the table. "On the house, for you _and_ for your date."

Sherlock turned to Joan. "Do you want to eat?"

Joan turned to the manager/owner. "I'm not his date."

"This man got me off a murder charge." The manager/owner said, gesturing to Sherlock.

"This is Angelo." Sherlock said as Angelo offered his hand to Joan, who shook it. "Three years ago I successfully proved to Lestrade at the time of a particularly vicious triple murder that Angelo was in a completely different part of town, house-breaking."

Angelo said to Joan, "He cleared my name."

"I cleared it a _bit_." Sherlock stated. "Anything happening opposite?"

"Nothing." Angelo looked at Joan again. "But for this man, I'd have gone to prison."

"You _did_ go to prison." Sherlock interjected.

Angelo said, once more, to Joan, "I'll get a candle for the table. It's more romantic."

Joan yelled after him indignantly as he walked away, "I'm not his date!"

Sherlock put his own menu down onto the table."You may as well eat. We might have a long wait."

Angelo came back with a small glass bowl containing a lit tea-light. He put it onto the table and gave Joan a thumbs-up before turning and walking away again. Joan said, a little tetchily, "Thanks…"

* * *

Later, Joan had a plate of food in front of her and was eating from it. Sherlock's attention was fixed out of the window and he was quietly drumming his fingers on the table. "People don't _have_ arch-enemies." Joan spoke up suddenly.

It took a moment but Sherlock finally looked round. "I'm sorry?"

"In real life." She clarified. "There _are_ no arch-enemies in real life. Doesn't happen."

Sherlock looked out of the window again and said disinterestedly, "Doesn't it? Sounds a bit dull."

"So…who did I meet?" Joan asked, referring to the man she met in the warehouse.

"What do real people have, then, in their 'real lives'?" He asked, ever so slightly curious.

"Friends; people they know; people they like; people they don't like…" She paused for a moment. "Girlfriends, boyfriends…"

"Yes, well, as I was saying – dull."

"You…don't have a girlfriend, then?"

Sherlock was still looking out of the window as he replied, "Girlfriend? No, not really…my area."

"Mm." A moment of silence passed. "D'you have a…boyfriend?" Sherlock looked round at her sharply. "Which is fine, by the way."

"I _know_ it's fine."

Joan smiled, indicating that she was not trying to signify anything negative by what she said. "So…do you?"

"No."

Joan was still smiling, though her smile had become a little fixed and awkward. "Right. Okay. You're unattached. Like…me." She looks down at her plate, running out of things to say. "Fine." She cleared her throat. "Good." She continued eating."

Sherlock looks at her suspiciously for a moment, but then turns his attention to 22 Northumberland Street again. However, replayed Joan's statement in his head a few times, and looked a little startled at his conclusion. Turning his head towards Joan again, he started speaking rather awkwardly, but rapidly speed up and was practically babbling by the time he had finished. "Joan, um…I think you should know that I consider myself married to my work, and while I'm flattered by your interest, I'm really not looking for any…"

"No." Joan interrupted, blushing a light shade of pink. She turned her head to clear her throat. "No, I'm not asking. No." She fixed her gaze onto Sherlock's. "I'm just saying, it's _all_ fine."

Sherlock looked at her for a moment, then nodded. "Good…Thank you." He turned his attention back to the street. Joan looked away, trying not to show how horribly she was blushing. Just then, Sherlock nodded to something out of the window. "Look across the street. Taxi." Joan turned in her seat to look out of the window where a taxi has parked at the side of the road with its back end towards the restaurant. "Stopped. Nobody getting in, and nobody getting out." In the rear seat of the taxi, a male passenger was looking through the side windows as if trying to see somebody particular. "Why a taxi?" The detective mumbled to himself. "Oh, that's clever. _Is_ it clever? _Why_ is it clever?"

"That's him?" Joan asked.

"Don't stare." Sherlock told her.

"_You're_ staring." She pointed out, looking round at him.

"We can't _both_ stare." He said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Getting to his feet, he grabs his coat and scarf and heads for the door. Joan picked up her own jacket and follows him, completely forgetting to take her cane with her. Outside the door, Sherlock pulled his coat on while keeping his eyes fixed on the taxi. The passenger continued to look around, then turned and looked out the back window. His gaze fell on the restaurant and he looked at it for a few moments while Sherlock stared back at him. The man turned towards the front of the vehicle and the taxi begin to pull away from the curb. Sherlock immediately headed towards it, without bothering to check the road that he was running into, and was almost run over by a car coming from his left. The driver slammed on the brakes and stopped the car, but Sherlock, always keen to take the quickest route, allows himself to roll over the hood of the car and land on is feet on the other side, and ran after the taxi.

As the driver of the car angrily sounded his horn, Joan ran up, placed one hand on the hood and vaulted over the front of the car, apologizing to the driver as she went. "Sorry!" She chased after Sherlock, who ran a few yards up the road before realizing that he was not going to catch the taxi and slowed to a halt. Joan catches up and stops beside him. "I've got the cab number." She told him.

"Good for you." He brought his hands up to either side of his head and concentrated, rapidly calling out directions as he thought of the cab's route."Right turn, one way, roadworks, traffic lights, bus lane, pedestrian crossing, left turn only, traffic lights." Having worked out the route, he lifted his head and saw a man unlocking the door to a nearby building. Sherlock raced towards the man and grabbed him, shoving him out of the way before charging into the building.

Joan hurried after Sherlock, wondering all the while what the hell he was thinking, and raised an apologetic hand to the man as she ran by. "Sorry!"

The two of them raced up the stairs and out onto a metal spiral fire escape staircase leading to the roof. "Come on, Joan." Sherlock called over his shoulder. Reaching the top of the stairs, Sherlock ran to the edge and looked over before seeing a shorter metal staircase, which lead down the side of the building to another door one floor lower. He galloped down the stairs and climbed onto the railing before leaping across the gap to the next building. Joan scrambled onto the railing and followed. Sherlock ran across to the other side of the roof and, again, leaped across to the next building. Joan raced after him, but skidded to a halt as she realized that the gap might be too big for her to jump across. She hesitated, looking down at the drop beneath her. "Come on, Joan. We're losing him!" Sherlock shouted impatiently.

_Come on, Joan, you can do this. This is nothing compared to Afghanistan. _Joan backed up a few paces and braced herself. She took a run-up and leaped across the gap. Dropping down onto a walkway along the side of the building, they ran onwards. As the taxi continued its journey on the ground, the detective and the ex-army doctor galloped down another metal staircase, then ran to a ledge and dropped down into an alleyway before running onwards again. Sherlock lead Joan down the alleyway, about to cross onto D'Arblay Street, which the taxi was just turning into. Sherlock turned the corner and raced down the last part of the alley, only to see the taxi drive past the end, heading to the left.

"Ah, no!" Sherlock shouted angrily. Without breaking stride, he raced out of the end of the alley and turned right. "This way." Instinctively, Joan turned left in pursuit of the taxi. "No, _this_ way!"

"Sorry." She turned and headed back in the opposite direction, following Sherlock.

They ran down the street, taking a shorter route than the taxi, which was being diverted by various road signs, taking it the long way around. They headed down more alleyways and side streets towards the interception point in Wardour Street and finally, at the precise point which he predicted, Sherlock raced out of a side street and hurled himself into the path of the approaching cab, which screeched to a halt as he crashed hard into the hood. Reaching in his left coat pocket, Sherlock pulled out an I.D. badge and flashed it at the driver as he ran to the right hand side of the cab. "Police! Open her up!" He shouted.

Panting heavily, he tugged open the rear door and stared in at the passenger, who looked back at him anxiously. Instantly, Sherlock straightened up in exasperation just as Joan joined him. "No." He leaned down again to look at the passenger a second time. "Teeth, tan: what – Californian?" He looked at something on the floor in front of the passenger. "L.A., Santa Monica. Just arrived." He straightened up again, grimacing.

"How can you _possibly_ know that?" Joan asked.

"The luggage." He looked down at the suitcase on the floor of the cab, its luggage label showing that the man has flown from LAX [Los Angeles International Airport] to LHR [London Heathrow Airport]. "It's probably your first trip to London, right, going by your final destination and the route the cabbie was taking you?" Sherlock asked the passenger.

"Sorry – are you guys the police?" The passenger asked.

"Yeah." Sherlock flashed the I.D. badge briefly at him. "Everything all right?"

The passenger smiled."Yeah."

Sherlock paused for a moment, then smiled falsely at the man. "Welcome to London." He immediately walks away, leaving Joan staring blankly for a moment before she stepped closer to the taxi door and looked in at the passenger.

"Er, any problems, just let us know." As the man nodded, John smiled politely and slammed the cab door shut. The man looked round to the taxi driver in bewilderment. Joan walked to where Sherlock had stopped a few yards behind the vehicle. "Basically just a cab that happened to slow down."

"Basically." He grumbled.

"Not the murderer." She continued.

"_Not_ the murderer, no." He gave an exasperated sigh.

"Wrong country, good alibi." She continued further.

"As they go." Sherlock switched the I.D. card from one hand to another.

Joan noticed this and reached for the card. "Hey, where-where did you get this? Here." Sherlock released it and she examined the name written on it."Right…Detective Inspector Lestrade?"

"Yeah. I pickpocket him when he's annoying." Sherlock admitted. "You can keep that one, I've got plenty at the flat." Joan nodded, then looked down at the card again before lifting her head and giggling silently._ "_What?"

"Nothing, just: 'Welcome to London'." She smirked.

Sherlock chuckled, then looked down the road to where a police officer had gone to investigate why the cab stopped in the middle of the road. The passenger got out and was pointing down the road towards them."Got your breath back?" He asked Joan.

She nodded. "Ready when you are." They turned and ran off down the road.


	10. Bust

Sherlock and Joan arrived back at 221B and walked along the hallway, breathing heavily. Joan hangs her jacket on a hook on the wall while Sherlock draped his coat over the bottom of the bannisters."Okay, that was ridiculous." Joan said as they leaned side by side against the wall, still trying to catch their breath. "That was the most ridiculous thing I've ever done."

"And you invaded Afghanistan." Sherlock pointed out.

Joan giggled and, after a moment, Sherlock also began to laugh."That wasn't just me… Hey, why aren't we back at the restaurant?"

Sherlock's demeanor became slightly more serious as he waved his hand dismissively. "Oh, they can keep an eye out. It was a long shot, anyway."

"So what were we doing there?" She asked.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Oh, just…passing the time." He looked at Joan. "And proving a point."

"What point?" Joan asked.

"You." He turned and called loudly towards the door to Mrs Hudson's flat. "Mrs Hudson! Doctor Watson _will_ take the room upstairs."

"Says who?" She challenged.

Sherlock looked towards the front door. "Says the man at the door."

John turned her head towards the door just as someone knocked. She turned back to look at Sherlock in surprise; he just smiles. Joan stared at him for a moment, then walked along the hall to answer the door. She opened the door and found Angelo standing outside.

"Sherlock texted me." Angelo smiled, holding up Joan's cane. "He said you forgot this."

Joan stared at the cane in surprise, then took it. "Ah." She turned and looked down the hall to Sherlock, who grinned at her. Joan turned back to Angelo and said, "Er, thank you. Thank you." As she came back in and closed the door, Mrs. Hudson came out of her flat and hurried over to them.

"Sherlock, what have you done?" She sounded upset and tearful as she spoke.

"Mrs. Hudson?" Sherlock asked.

"Upstairs." The landlady gestured in the general direction of their flat.

Sherlock turned and hurried up the stairs, Joan following him. He opened the living room door and went inside, where he found D.I. Lestrade sitting casually in the armchair facing the door. Other police officers were going through Sherlock's possessions. The detective stormed over to Lestrade."What are you doing?"

"Well, I knew you'd find the case." Lestrade replied. "I'm not stupid."

"You can't just break into my flat." Sherlock stated.

"And you can't withhold evidence. And I didn't _break_ into your flat." Lestrade retorted.

"Well, what do you call this then?" Sherlock gestured to the officers.

Lestrade looked round at his officers before looking back to Sherlock innocently. "It's a drugs bust."

"Seriously?!" Joan shouted. "_This_ guy, a junkie?! Have you met him?!"

Sherlock turned and walked closer to Joan, biting his lip nervously."Joan…"

Joan turned to Lestrade, "I'm pretty sure you could search this flat all day, you wouldn't find anything you could call recreational."

"Joan, you probably want to shut up _now_." Sherlock said, a little unnerved.

"Yeah, but come on…" She looked Sherlock straight in the eyes. He held his gaze for a long moment, and Joan realized how serious he looked."No."

"What?"

"_You_?"

"Shut up!" He spat angrily, turning back to Lestrade. "I'm not your sniffer dog."

"No, _Anderson_'s my sniffer dog." Lestrade nodded towards the kitchen.

"What, An-" The closed doors to the kitchen slid open and revealed several more officers in there searching through the room. Anderson turned towards the living room and raised his hand in sarcastic greeting. "Anderson, what are _you_ doing here on a drugs bust?" He asked angrily.

"Oh, I volunteered." Anderson replied venomously. Sherlock turned away, biting his lip in sheer anger.

"They _all_ did." Lestrade told him. "They're not strictly speaking _on_ the drugs squad, but they're very keen."

Donovan came into view from the kitchen, holding a small glass jar with some round white objects in it. "Are these _human_ eyes?"

"Put those back!" Sherlock shouted at her.

"They were in the microwave!" She retorted.

"It's an experiment." He replied indignantly.

"Keep looking, guys." Lestrade stood up and turned to Sherlock."Or you could help us properly and I'll stand them down."

Sherlock paced angrily. "This is childish."

"Well, I'm _dealing_ with a child." The D.I retorted. "Sherlock, this is _our_ case. I'm letting you in, but you do _not_ go off on your own. Clear?"

The detective stopped and glared at him. "Oh, what, so-so-so you set up a pretend drugs bust to bully me?"

"It stops being pretend if they find anything." Lestrade stated calmly.

"I am clean!" Sherlock stated loudly.

"Is your flat? All of it?" Lestrade questioned.

"I don't even smoke." Sherlock unbuttoned the cuff of his left shirt and pulled it up to show the nicotine patch on his lower arm.

"Neither do I." Lestrade pulled up the right sleeve of his own shirt to show a similar patch on his arm. Sherlock rolled his eyes and turned away and they both pull their sleeves back down again._ "_So let's work together. We've found Rachel."

Sherlock turned back to him. "Who is she?"

"Jennifer Wilson's only daughter." Lestrade replied.

The detective frowned. "Her daughter? Why would she write her daughter's name? Why?"

"Never mind _that_. We found the case." Anderson pointed to the pink suitcase in the living room. "According to _someone_, the murderer has the case, and we found it in the hands of our favorite psychopath."

Sherlock looked at him disparagingly. "I'm not a psychopath, Anderson. I'm a high-functioning sociopath. Do your research." He turned back to Lestrade. "You need to bring Rachel in. You need to question her. _I_ need to question her."

"She's dead." Lestrade stated.

"Excellent!" Joan looked startled at Sherlock's outburst._ "_How, when and why? Is there a connection? There _has_ to be."

"Well, I doubt it, since she's been dead for fourteen years. Technically, she was never alive. Rachel was Jennifer Wilson's stillborn daughter, fourteen years ago."

Joan grimaced sadly and turned away. Sherlock, on the other hand, just looked confused. "No, that's…that's not right. How…Why would she do that? _Why?"_

"Why would she think of her daughter in her last moments?" Anderson stepped in. "Yup – sociopath; I'm seeing it now."

Sherlock turned to him with an exasperated look on his face. "She didn't _think_ about her daughter. She scratched her name on the floor with her fingernails. She was dying. It took effort. It would have hurt." He began to pace back and forth across the room again.

"You said that the victims all took the poison themselves, that he _makes_ them take it." Joan pointed out. "Well, maybe he…I don't know, talks to them? Maybe he used the death of her daughter somehow."

"Yeah, but that was _ages_ ago." Sherlock stopped and turned to her. "Why would she still be upset?"

Joan stared at him. Sherlock hesitated as he realized that everyone in the flat had stopped what they were doing and had fallen silent. He glanced around the room and then looked awkwardly at Joan._ "_Not good?"

She also glanced around at the others before turning back to Sherlock. "_Bit_ not good, yeah."

Sherlock shook it off and stepped closer to Joan, looking at her intently."Yeah, but if you were dying…if you'd been murdered: in your very last few seconds what would you say?"

"'Please, God, let me live.'" Was all she said.

"Oh, use your imagination!" He said, exasperated.

"I don't _have_ to." She gave him a stern look.

Sherlock seemed to recognize the look of pain in Joan's face. He paused and blinked a few times, shifting his feet apologetically before continuing. "Yeah, but if you were clever, _really_ clever…Jennifer Wilson, running all those lovers: she _was_ clever." He started to pace again. "She's trying to _tell_ us something."

Mrs. Hudson came to the door of the living room."Isn't the doorbell working? Your taxi's here, Sherlock."

"I didn't order a taxi. Go away." He continued pacing as Mrs. Hudson looked around the room.

"Oh, dear. They're making such a mess. What are they looking for?"

"It's a drugs bust, Mrs Hudson." Joan told her.

"But they're just for my hip." The landlady said anxiously. "They're herbal soothers."

With his back to the door, Sherlock stopped and shouted out, "Shut up, everybody, shut up! Don't move, don't speak, don't breathe. I'm trying to think. Anderson, face the other way. You're putting me off."

"What? My _face_ is?!" The man in question shouted back.

"Everybody quiet and still." Lestrade ordered. "Anderson, turn your back."

"Oh, for God's sake!" Anderson whined.

"Your _back_, now, please!" Lestrade shouted to him; he reluctantly obeyed.

"Come on, think." Sherlock muttered to himself. "Quick!"

"What about your taxi?" Mrs. Hudson asked.

Sherlock turned to her and shouted furiously, "MRS HUDSON!" She turned and hurried away down the stairs. Sherlock stopped and looked around as he finally realized something. "Oh." He smiled in delight. "Ah! She was clever, clever, yes!" He walked across the room and then turned back to the others. "She's cleverer than you lot and she's dead. Do you see, do you get it? She didn't _lose_ her phone, she never lost it. She _planted_ it on him." He started pacing again. "When she got out of the car, she knew that she was going to her death. She left the phone in order to lead us to her killer."

"But how?" Lestrade asked.

Sherlock stopped and stared at him. "Wha...? What do you mean, how?" Lestrade shrugged. "Rachel!" He looked at everyone triumphantly. They all looked back at him blankly."Don't you see? _Rachel!" _Still, everyone looked blank. Sherlock laughed in disbelief. "Oh, look at you lot. You're all so vacant. Is it nice not being me? It must be _so_ relaxing." He continued more sternly_,_ "Rachel is not a name."

"Then what is it?" Joan asked, equally sternly.

Sherlock pointed to the suitcase. "Joan, on the luggage, there's a label. E-mail address."

Joan looked at the label on the suitcase and read out the address. "Er, jennie dot pink at mephone dot org dot uk."

Sherlock sat down at the dining table and was looking at his computer. "Oh, I've been too slow. She didn't have a laptop, which means she did her business on her phone, so it's a smartphone, it's e-mail enabled." He pulled up Mephone's website and typed the email address into the 'User name' box. "So there was a website for her account. The username is her e-mail address…" He began to type into the 'Password' box. "…and all together now, the password is?"

Joan walked over to stand behind him. "Rachel."

"So we can read her e-mails." Anderson scoffed. "So what?"

"Anderson, don't talk out loud. You lower the I.Q. of the whole street." Sherlock said over his shoulder. "We can do much more than just read her e-mails. It's a smartphone, it's got GPS, which means if you lose it you can locate it online. She's leading us directly to the man who killed her."

"Unless he got rid of it." Lestrade pointed out.

"We know he didn't." Joan countered.

Sherlock looked at the screen impatiently._ "_Come on, come on. Quickly!"

Mrs. Hudson came up the stairs and to the door again. "Sherlock, dear. This taxi driver…"

Sherlock got to his feet and walked over towards her. "Mrs Hudson, isn't it time for your evening soother?"

Joan sat down on the chair which Sherlock vacated and watched a clock spinning round on the website as it claimed that the phone would be located in under three minutes.

Sherlock turned to Lestrade."We need to get vehicles, get a 're gonna have to move fast. This phone battery won't last for ever."

"We'll just have a map reference, not a name." Lestrade sighed.

"It's a start!" Sherlock shouted.

On the computer, a map has appeared and was zooming in on the location of the phone. "Sherlock…" Joan tried to get his attention.

Sherlock, however, continued talking with Lestrade. "It narrows it down from just anyone in London. It's the first proper lead that we've had."

"Sherlock…" Joan called again.

He hurried across the room to look over Joan's shoulder."What is it? Quickly, where?"

The map was indicating the precise location of the phone. "It's here." Th ex-army doctor said in disbelief. "It's in two-two-one Baker Street."

Sherlock straightened up. "How can it be here? _How_?"

"Well, maybe it was in the case when you brought it back and it fell out somewhere." Lestrade suggested.

"What, and I didn't notice it? _Me_? I didn't notice?" Sherlock asked, rather flustered.

"Anyway, we texted him and he called back." Joan said to Lestrade.

Lestrade turned to call out to his colleagues."Guys, we're also looking for a mobile somewhere here, belonged to the victim…"

Behind Mrs. Hudson, who was still at the doorway, a man had reached the top of the stairs. He was wearing a badge in a leather holder on a cord around his neck. The badge was for a licensed London cab driver. He pulled out a bright pink smartphone and sent a text message. Sherlock stood still for a few moments, tuning everything out, deep in thought, when his phone sounded a text alert. Taking his phone from his jacket pocket he looked at the message, staring incredulously. As he turned his head towards the door, the taxi driver turned around and calmly headed off down the stair_s._

"Sherlock, you okay?" Joan asked.

He watched the man go."What? Yeah, yeah, I-I'm fine."

"So, how can the phone be here?" She asked further.

"Dunno." He replied, still watching the taxi driver.

Joan got her own phone from her jeans pocket. "I'll try it again."

"Good idea." Sherlock headed towards the door.

"Where are _you_ going?" Joan called after him.

"Fresh air." He called back over his shoulder. "Just popping outside for a moment. Won't be long."

Joan frowned as Sherlock left the room, and called after him again, "You sure you're all right?"

Sherlock hurried down the stairs. "I'm fine."

* * *

_Gettin' real close to the end- just one more chapter to go!_

_I will post a sequel that goes along with 'The Blind Banker' once this is all done. I'll make a few more modifications to that one, as not everything will work out as-is._

_Special thanks to all who've read, favorite-ed, followed, and commented. \m/ Rock on.  
_


	11. Sherlock

Joan stood and watched Sherlock conversing with a taxi driver on the roadside. She had called the Jennifer Wilson's phone, and it was just ringing out in her ear. "He just got in a cab…" She turned to Lestrade. "It's Sherlock. He just drove off in a cab."

Donovan, who was standing beside Lestrade, tutted in irritation. "I told you, he does that." She turned to Lestrade. "He bloody left again." She walked back into the kitchen, talking loudly. "We're wasting our time!"

"I'm calling the phone." Joan told Lestrade. "It's ringing out."

Lestrade watched Joan as she continued to hold her phone to her ear. "If it's ringing, it's not here." He stated.

Joan lowered her phone and reached for the computer. "I'll try the search again."

Donovan came back to confront Lestrade. "Does it matter?" She asked. "Does _any_ of it? You know, he's just a lunatic, and he'll _always_ let you down, and you're wasting your time. _All_ our time."

Lestrade stared at her for a long moment as she held his gaze, then he sighs. "Okay, everybody." He said loudly. "Done here."

* * *

A while later, as the other police officers left, Lestrade picked up his coat and turned to Joan. "Why did he do that?" He asked her. "Why did he have to leave?"

"You know him better than I do." Joan shrugged.

"I've known him for five years and no, I don't." He stated.

"So why do you put up with him?" She asked.

"Because I'm desperate, that's why." Lestrade walked to the door, then turned back to Joan. "And because Sherlock Holmes is a great man. And I think one day, if we're very, very _lucky_, he might even be a _good_ one." With that, he turned and left the flat, leaving Joan completely and utterly alone.

She sat there a few long moments, thinking about her options. She _could_ wait for the search to finish and go after Sherlock, she _could_ just sit in the flat and watch crap telly… She shook her head to clear it. _Why am I still even here? _Joan asked herself, standing. She decided to go home to the ruddy bedsit she called home and walked towards the living room door. Suddenly, she stopped, looked down and clenched her right hand, realizing that she didn't have her cane. Looking round, Joan saw the cane lying on top of a box of papers next to the dining table and goes over to collect it. As Joan picked up the cane and headed for the door again, the computer beeped triumphantly and a map appeared on the screen, starting to zoom in on the location of the phone.

Joan turned back as the computer beeped repeatedly. Going back to the table and propping her cane against it, she picked up the computer and looked at the screen, then turned and took the notebook with her as she hurried out of the door and down the stairs, once again forgetting to take her cane. _Looks like the bedsit will have to wait._

* * *

Later, Joan was seated in the back of a taxi. She had the computer open on her lap and was holding her phone to her ear. "No, Detective Inspector Lestrade. I need to speak to him." She spoke into the phone. "It's important. It's an emergency!" The map on the laptop showed the location of Jennifer's phone again. "Er, left here, please." She said to the cab driver. "Left here."

Later still, Joan arrived at her destination: Roland-Kerr College. As the taxi pulled away, John tucked the computer into her jacket and looked at the two identical buildings in front of her. The map wasn't precise enough to indicate _exactly_ where the phone is, so the only way of knowing was pick one and hope for the best.

After a moment, she made her choice and headed towards one of the buildings. _Please let this be the right one,_ She thought as she pulled open the doors and ran in, beginning to search through the corridors. "Sherlock?" Joan ran from door to door, trying them and peering in through the windows. "Sherlock!" She searched for at most five minutes, but she didn't care. She didn't care how much her arm hurt after pulling on so many doors; she didn't care that her hair had fallen out of its clip and hung loosely around her shoulders. Joan was a soldier, and she only cared about the safety of others.

Finally, after who-knows how long, she burst through a door that actually opened without a struggle and stared ahead of her as she finally saw who she was looking for. Her eyes filled with horror; inside the classroom, Sherlock held a small bottle with a small, potentially lethal pill…in an identical classroom in the other building. Joan cried out in horror, "_SHERLOCK!_"

Sherlock, unaware that he and the cabbie sitting across from him were being watched, unscrewed the cap of the bottle and let the little pill fall into his hand. He held it up to the light, examined it, and oh, so slowly, brought it closer to his lips.

Joan watched in sheer despair. What could she do? She couldn't try and go into the other building, that would take to long. She couldn't shout again, the other window was closed. The only other option was… _Well, it's awful, but I have to do it._ She told herself.

Taking in a deep breath, Joan pulled out her gun and aimed it straight at the cabbie. She cocked it back and forced herself to keep her arm steady. She released the breath she was holding and fired, striking the cabbie's chest close to his heart. The bullet then went through his body and smashed into the door behind him. As he fell to the floor, Sherlock dropped his pill in surprise, not making a move to pick it up.

Joan lowered the gun to her side and quickly darted out of the room and eventually the building, somehow skirting around the police cars that had arrived in response to her call undetected. Fixing her hair messily back into its clip, Joan found Donovan and innocently asked what happened, hearing how the pill in Sherlock's hand was one of two, one of which was lethal and the other not. It was a game to the cabbie; a sick, twisted game of survival and chance. And Sherlock almost agreed to play._  
_

The ex-army doctor was asked to wait behind the police tape as Sherlock sat in the back of an ambulance, a paramedic draping an orange blanket over his shoulders. Joan somehow overheard his and Lestrade's conversation and caught glimpses of them from time to time.

Sherlock gestured to the blanket. "Why have I got this blanket? They keep putting this blanket on me."

"Yeah, it's for shock." Lestrade told him.

"I'm not _in_ shock." Sherlock retorted.

"Yeah, but some of the guys wanna take photographs." The D.I. grinned.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "So, the shooter. No sign?"

"Cleared off before we got here." Lestrade said. "But a guy like that would have had enemies, I suppose. One of them could have been following him, but…" He shrugged. "…got nothing to go on.

Sherlock looked at him pointedly."Oh, I wouldn't say that."

Lestrade rolled his eyes."Okay, gimme."

Sherlock stood up. "The bullet they just dug out of the wall's from a hand gun. Kill shot over that distance from that kind of a weapon – that's a crack shot you're looking for, but not just a marksman; a fighter. His hands couldn't have shaken at all, so clearly he's acclimatised to violence. He didn't fire until I was in immediate danger, though, so strong moral principle. You're looking for a man probably with a history of military service…" As he was talking, he turned his head to look around the area and saw Joan, who quickly turned away to avoid suspicion, standing some distance away behind the police tape. "…and nerves of steel…" Sherlock trailed off. As Joan looked back at him innocently then turned her head away, Sherlock began to realize the connection. Lestrade turned to follow his gaze, and Sherlock turned back to him before he could start to ask questions."Actually, do you know what? Ignore me."

"Sorry?" Lestrade asked.

"Ignore all of that. It's just the, er, the shock talking." Sherlock started to walk towards Joan.

"Where're you going?" Lestrade took a step forward.

"I just need to talk about th-the rent." Sherlock said.

"But I've still got questions for you." Lestrade said.

Sherlock turned back to him in irritation. "Oh, what _now_? I'm in shock! Look, I've got a blanket!" He held out the sides of the blanket at Lestrade as if to prove the apparent 'shock' he was in.

"Sherlock!"

"_And_ I just caught you a serial killer…more or less."

Lestrade looked at him thoughtfully for a moment._ "_Okay, just lemme give you something…" He pulled out a slip of paper and a pen, scribbling something down before folding it up and handing it to Sherlock, who took it. "Could you hand this to Joan?" Sherlock nodded, placing the paper in his pocket. "We'll bring you in tomorrow, then. Off you go."

Sherlock walked away, took the blanket from around his shoulders, and bundled it up as he approached Joan, who was standing at the side of a police car. He tossed the blanket through the open window of the car and ducked under the police tape. "Um, Sergeant Donovan's just been explaining everything, the two pills." Joan said, trying to sound convincing. "Been a dreadful business, hasn't it? Dreadful."

Sherlock looked at her for a moment._ "_Good shot." He said quietly.

"Yes. Yes, must have been, through that window." She tried her best to look innocent.

"Well, _you'd_ know." His words make Joan look up at him, still trying not to let her expression give her away."Need to get the powder burns out of your fingers and fix your hair better. I don't suppose you'd serve time for this, but let's avoid the court case." Joan cleared her throat and looked around nervously. "Are you all right?"

"Yes, of course I'm all right." She said, pulling a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

"Well, you _have_ just killed a man." Sherlock pointed out.

"Yes, I…" Joan trailed off._ "_That's true, innit?" She smiled, despite Sherlock's stare. "But he wasn't a very _nice_ man."

Reassured that Joan really was okay, Sherlock nodded in agreement. "No. No, he wasn't really, was he?"

"And frankly a bloody awful cabbie." She added.

Sherlock chuckled, turned and started to lead her away from the crime scene as he spoke."That's true. He _was_ a bad cabbie. Should have seen the route he took us to get here!"

Joan giggled, and Sherlock smiled. "Stop! Stop, we can't giggle, it's a crime scene! Stop it!"

"You're the one who shot him. Don't blame me." Sherlock stated it as if it was an everyday thing.

"Keep your voice down!" She said as they walked past Sergeant Donovan. "Sorry – it's just, um, nerves, I think."

"Sorry." Sherlock mumbled.

Joan cleared her throat as they walked away from Donovan. "You were gonna take that damned pill, weren't you?"

Sherlock turned back to her. "Course I wasn't. Biding my time. Knew you'd turn up."

"No you didn't. It's how you get your kicks, isn't it? You risk your life to prove you're clever."

"Why would I do that?"

"Because you're an idiot."

Sherlock smiled, delighted that he had finally found someone who understood him. After a moment he forced the smile down. "Dinner?"

"Starving." Joan smiled as they turned and started to walk again.

"End of Baker Street, there's a good Chinese stays open 'til two." He told her. "You can always tell a good Chinese by examining the bottom third of the door handle." As he was speaking, a few yards ahead of them a car had pulled up and the man who abducted Joan earlier stepped out._  
_

"Sherlock." Joan stared at the man. "_That's_ him. That's the man I was talking to you about."

Sherlock looked at the man. "I know _exactly_ who that is." He walked closer to the man and stopped, looking at him angrily.

The man spoke pleasantly to Sherlock, saying, "So, another case cracked. How very public spirited…though that's never really your motivation, is it?"

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock asked angrily.

"As ever, I'm concerned about you." The man replied.

"Yes, I've been hearing about your 'concern'."

"Always so aggressive. Did it never occur to you that you and I belong on the same side?"

"Oddly enough, no!"

"We have more in common than you like to believe. This petty feud between us is simply childish. People will suffer…and you know how it always upset Mummy."

Slightly off to the side, Joan frowned as if unsure of what she just heard.

"_I_ upset her? Me?" Sherlock spat; the man just glowered at him. "It wasn't _me_ that upset her, Mycroft."

"No, no, wait. Mummy?" Joan cut in. "Who's Mummy?"

"Mother – our mother. This is my brother, Mycroft." Sherlock gestured to the man. Joan stared at them in amazement. Sherlock turned back to his brother and asked, "Putting on weight again?"

"Losing it, in fact." Mycroft stated.

"He's your _brother_?!" Joan shouted in slight confusion.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Of _course_ he's my brother."

"So he's not…" Se trailed off.

"Not what?"

The brothers looked at Joan as she shrugged in embarrassment. "I dunno – criminal mastermind?"

Sherlock looked at his brother. "Close enough."

"For goodness' sake." Mycroft said. "I occupy a minor position in the British government."

"He _is_ the British government, when he's not too busy being the British Secret Service or the CIA on a freelance basis." Sherlock's remark made Mycroft sigh. "Good evening, Mycroft. Try not to start a war before I get home. You know what it does for the traffic." He walked away. Joan started to follow him, but turned back to Mycroft, who turned to watch his brother leave.

"So, when-when you say you're concerned about him, you actually _are_ concerned?" She asked.

"Yes, of course." He replied.

"I mean, it actually _is_ a childish feud?" Joan looked between Sherlock and Mycroft.

"He's always been so resentful." Mycroft said, still watching Sherlock. "You can imagine the Christmas dinners."

"Yeah…no. God, no!" She half-turned to follow Sherlock. "I-I'd better, um… Good night." She glanced at Mycroft then turned and followed after Sherlock.

"Good night, Doctor Watson." Mycroft called after her.

Joan caught up to Sherlock and they walked away, side by side._ "_So: dim sum."

"Mmm!" Sherlock smirked. "I can always predict the fortune cookies."

"No you can't." She rolled her eyes.

"Almost can. You did get shot, though." He stated.

"Sorry?" She was slightly confused.

"In Afghanistan." He clarified. "There _was_ an actual wound."

"Oh, yeah. Shoulder." She said.

"Shoulder! I thought so." He smirked again.

"No you didn't." She challenged.

"The left one." He said.

"Lucky guess." She raised her left shoulder slightly and gestured to it with her head.

"I never guess." He said proudly.

Joan laughed. "Yes you do."

Sherlock looked thoughtful for a split second, then shuffled around in his pocket and pulled out the slip of paper. "Lestrade wanted me to give this to you."

"What's this?" She unfolded it and glanced at it quickly, before shoving it into her pocket and rolling her eyes.

"What was it?" He asked.

"A phone number-_Lestrade's_ phone number." She said in a disbelieving tone. "He's actually trying to _flirt_ with me!"

"Well, he certainly has an eye for beauty, I'll give him that…" Sherlock murmured.

"And just _what_ do you mean by _that_?" Joan asked.

"Don't you know a compliment when you hear one?" He asked indignantly. "I don't dish them out often, so don't get used to it."

"It's been a while since I've been noticed for something other than my service in Afghanistan, Sherlock."

"Pity; men these days don't know what they're missing out on. Ignorant folks, really. Very superficial."

"And I'm supposed to believe you know what they're missing out on?"

"Well, I _am_ sharing a flat with you…"

Joan looked across to Sherlock in surprise. He was smiling with a slightly crazed glint in his eye. "What are you so happy about?"

"Moriarty." Sherlock said, almost in a dark manner.

"What's Moriarty?" She asked.

"I've absolutely _no_ idea." He stated cheerfully.

* * *

_Lookit that- we just finished the story! Woo! _

_I'll post the sequel soon. It's gonna be called 'Blinded'._

_Special thanks again to all who've commented/followed/Favorited! _

_Have a wonderful rest of your day!_


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